


with irreverence

by Wagandea



Category: Little Witch Academia
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Character Study, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Masturbation, Morning After, set while they're both in school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 18:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12348618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagandea/pseuds/Wagandea
Summary: Croix has an underclassman in her bed and she's still not sure what to do about that.





	with irreverence

Chariot is curled up like a sleeping cat against the wall, head under the covers, and for what might be the first time _ever_ , Croix is immensely glad she has the sole top bunk. At a glance, no one else could be in her bed at all, and it’s a lie Croix would like to believe herself. She closes her eyes against the early morning stripes of light cast over the ceiling, and pretends. It would almost work, if she couldn’t hear the soft inhale-exhale of Chariot’s breath, if she couldn’t feel the warm back pressed to her side. These bunks aren’t big enough for two people, but maybe that’s the point. Croix suspects Chariot doesn’t mind one bit.

But Croix… Croix isn’t so foolishly _optimistic_ about all of this. She knows how this looks, and sure she was raised Catholic, but she hasn’t been able to play innocent-if-straightlaced church girl for a long time (not since Chariot got her hands _all over_ Croix’s body, anyway), and it was hard enough the first ten times to brush Chariot’s presence in her bed off as an innocent sleepover. No one is that naive; except perhaps for Chariot.

Croix bends to her will anyway. There’s something deeply _wrong_ with that, with what she’s doing, with the allowances she is giving Chariot.

She opens her eyes, comes back to reality, when Chariot sighs sleepily, rolls over--and then there’s a little kiss pressed to her shoulder, hair tickling her neck, which all only results in Croix feeling profoundly _dirty_. There’s shame, of course, and a feeling of discomfort that settles between her legs.

“Are you awake?”

Croix couldn’t answer the murmur even if she wanted to, through the clenched jaw and the lump in her throat. It’s a hard pill to swallow, even after _weeks_ of fooling around. Croix is still trying to make sense of things, feelings, the way Chariot’s mouth felt under the covers, and _especially_ that--

“Croix?”

\--but Croix isn’t supposed to think about those things. She’s a good liar. She’s written home to her parents twice this week, talking about studying and going to town with her _best friend_ Chariot. Then, she’ll lie to _Chariot_ too, pretend everything’s fine and she isn’t going to bed every night (and not just the ones they spend together) feeling like she’s done something awful, something unforgivable. Croix owes it to her, her only friend.

Chariot sighs again, mumbles something indistinguishable, settles back down. Croix listens to the sound of her breathing and wishes sleep came as easy for her. She needs to get up. She needs a cup of coffee. She needs to stumble down to the showers and scrub herself clean, scrub her face and her neck and the places between her legs Chariot put her mouth on last night.

And maybe it isn’t even about sullying her only friendship this way, maybe it isn’t even about Chariot being a _girl_ , maybe this is about the sex and the way Croix’s own body has betrayed her like this. She doesn’t feel like she’s in control, not the first time and not last night and not now, with Chariot’s head at the crook of her neck and an unfortunately familiar ache lingering below the waist.

There’s no way to make sense of this.

“Chariot?” Her voice is harsh and raspy in the half darkness, mouth dry. Chariot doesn’t stir, just keeps breathing slowly against Croix’s neck, and that’s good, that’s for the better. Better to take care of this problem herself (nevermind that Chariot, although two years younger, is smooth and practiced and infinitely more gifted in this area).

Disgust and arousal. Croix seems to be perpetually stuck in both states, these days. Slowly, very slowly, she draws a hand down her own stomach, and _doesn’t_ imagine it’s Chariot’s hand or Chariot’s stomach. There, the bruise on her hip where Chariot bit down hard two nights ago. There, where Chariot had kissed a line from her belly button downwards.

There’s only one way to solve this problem. Croix’s fingers still at the waistband of her underwear, then move _over_ the plain fabric.

For not the first time, she misses the tiny interior of the confessional at the church back home. It all comes back to this idea of purity, of temptation. Croix isn’t sure if she believes in God, but there’s always been a comfort in the idea of relinquishing her sins; of forgiveness. If absolution is possible, Croix is the farthest from it here, touching herself on this tiny bunk with a fifteen year old girl’s breasts pressed to her side.

Her fingers move clumsily through the fabric, an experimental push here and there, the way she thought she’d put her fingers to Chariot last night. Chariot, who had kept looking up at her in search of… what, approval? As her tongue had made small circles around Croix’s clit. It’s obscene. She should be ashamed of herself, or at least Croix should be. She tries to copy the movement with one fingertip now, but nothing’s ever felt as good as Chariot’s mouth and nothing ever will.

Still, she lets out a stuttered breath, bites her lip, and then…

Then, Chariot moves, as if on cue, just lifts her head and looks sleepily at Croix. Croix, eyes blown wide, caught in the act. She could die right here, sink through the bed and disappear.

She giggles, a sound that both makes Croix’s heart lurch and threatens to make her sick. “So you are awake,” Chariot murmurs, then ducks her head back into the crook of Croix’s neck.

“Yeah,” Croix says weakly, hopes this isn’t as obvious as it is. She wasn’t doing anything. If she can convince herself of that, she can convince Chariot too. “Couldn’t sleep.” She tries to pull her hand away, only to have it caught in Chariot’s. “Uh--I… I was just...”

But if Chariot recognizes the rising panic in Croix’s voice, she’s kind enough not to respond to it. She does let go of Croix’s hand, but only to dance her fingers teasingly over the elastic of Croix’s underwear. “Aw, come on. Stop trying to have fun without me.”

And when her fingers slip below the band, Croix thinks that if the shame doesn’t kill her, Chariot will.


End file.
